The New Normal
by Flaignhan
Summary: She had always thought things would go back to how they were.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is an odd one. I'm not sure how I feel about the whole shebang but I've spent enough time writing it so someone's going to bloody well read it. It's technically a one shot but it has three distinct sections so I'm posting in three parts (but all at once, if you get me, and if two and three aren't up yet it's because I'm still proofreading, Speedy Gonzales). Anyway. Yeah. Thanks to the folk who reviewed Trust Issues, I've missed you lot since I finished Schoolgirl Crush. Nice to have you back. And in other news I have a tumblr these days. Be a dear and follow so I can work out who to follow in order to stalk reblogged pictures of Benedict and loveable gifs of Jennifer Lawrence (that's what it's meant for, right?). Username is flaignhan, link on profile, etc etc. I'mma stop typing now. Let me know what you think of this!

* * *

**The New Normal**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He's going through the motions these days. He has to be careful, with those at the top keeping their eyes on him. Everything is done by the book. It's boring. He gets fewer results. Sometimes, he doesn't even try to get a result. Just to prove a point.

"He's hiding something," Sally says, folding her arms. "I know he is. There's something in that house, and we need to find out what it is."

"Not gonna happen," Lestrade says, turning the page of the report.

"Sorry?" Sally asks.

"You'll need a warrant."

"Yeah, and we'll get one."

"Based on what? Gut instinct?"

"Don't you feel it too?" Sally asks, fixing him with her dark eyes. Lestrade spares her the briefest of glances before lazily perusing the file once more.

"Well," he says sarcastically, "if you're offering up _two_ gut instincts as sufficient grounds then -"

"Well maybe we don't need whatever's in there as evidence. Maybe we just need a shove in the right direction so we can catch him red handed."

Lestrade frowns. "Sergeant Donovan," he says, "Are you suggesting we break into the home of a suspect?"

"You say 'breaking in', I say 'exploring'." She smiles, just a little.

"And I say _Chief Inspector_." Lestrade slams down the file, and Sally flinches. "If you think one of my team is going to do anything illegal on my watch, you've got another think coming."

"But sir -"

"I don't care."

"No," Sally says, digging the toe of her shoe against the carpet tiles. "That's the trouble, isn't it?"

Lestrade doesn't rise to the bait. "Your doing," he says cheerfully. "Now, get out of my office."

Sally slams the door behind her and Lestrade puts his feet up on the table, smiling to himself. If nothing else, he can do his friend the courtesy of making sure Sally Donovan regrets the day she ever named him as a suspect.

* * *

The fridge is empty. It's been empty for months. There's not a speck of human tissue to be seen, no suspicious stains, no unpleasant experiments that cause her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. She pulls on her marigolds regardless, and with the spray bleach in one hand, and her cloth in the other, she scrubs it. When she's done, she goes at the sink, and then empties out all of the cabinets and cleans the insides of those too. And then, when she's put everything back in its rightful place, she mops the floor until it shines brightly under the fluorescent strip lighting.

She thinks, rather sadly, that if he were here, he'd be terribly cross with her. She'd give anything to have him shout at her again. Anything for a snide comment or a demand for tea. She tries to ignore the trembling of her hands, putting it down to old age, but she knows that's got naff all to do with it.

Thinking about him causes her heart to whine in her chest, as though there's a little hole in it and all of the lovely things in the world whoosh through and go to some place else. Dabbing at her eyes with her hankie is second nature by now, and so she busies herself by doing some laundry. She can't have his second best dressing gown getting all musty, it wouldn't do.

"I bet you miss him too, don't you?" she says wistfully.

The skull on the mantelpiece doesn't reply.

"Still," she says, feigning brightness. "I'll be going to John's for tea tomorrow. That'll be nice, I'm sure."

She starts straightening the books on the shelves either side of the chimney breast, and when she finally accepts that nobody's moved them since the last time she did this, she gives up and turns around.

When she sees the bright yellow smiley face spray painted on the wall, she bursts into tears.

* * *

He spends every waking moment _not_ thinking about it. And, as such, spends every waking moment thinking about the 'it' that he's not thinking about. He hates his brain. He wishes he could switch it off. He's tried everything, from trashy television to audiobooks, even crosswords and whatever kind of brainteaser he can find in the pages of the newspaper.

But no. None of it works.

Because in his head, all the time, he can hear _him_. He narrates John's life like it's some tragic little art house film where nothing really happens. And the worst thing is, it's so horribly close to how _he_ was, that it drives John insane. Perhaps he could cope if the voice were comforting, saying things like 'John, you're fine' and 'don't worry, John'. But no, of _course _it doesn't say that. Instead, what John hears all day is 'well the answer's blatantly obvious, isn't it?' and when John tells the voice in his head that no, the answer is _not_ obvious, the voice puts on a sulky, arms-folded sort of tone, and says 'well I'm not going to tell you, it'd do you good to work it out for yourself'.

John's coffee has gotten stronger. He needs something sharp to push _him_ and _his _sharpness out. In fact, he's taken up a lot of unpleasant habits in order to drive _him_ from his mind, as though the voice might just one day throw his arms in the air in a hissy fit, grab his suitcase and walk out, so he can go and bother somebody a little bit more accommodating.

John knows why he stays though. John indulges him, John talks back to him, and most of all, John _argues_ with him. The voice in his head loves that. It seems that it's about as much fun a disembodied voice can have in this day and age.

Or maybe it's less a voice-in-the-head thing and more of a..._him_ thing.

He doesn't tell his psychiatrist that he's got a voice in his head. It's not something he's prepared to reveal to someone who can sign the paperwork that'll get him a nice new jacket with a really interesting sleeve design.

He'll just have to make do with the voice. And really, if John were to be completely honest with himself, he's not sure he'd have it any other way.

That worries him far more than the voice does.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Part two. Enjoy.

* * *

**The New Normal**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Molly is struggling, and when she confides this to someone, someone tells her that it's nothing new and that as such, she should just carry on struggling because no one will suspect a thing.

Someone, is incredibly unhelpful.

Life is fine, really. It's _good_, even. It's not been good for...well, for a really long time. It's been all right, she's not exactly been crying herself to sleep in a cardboard box for the last ten years, but she can't remember smiling as often as she does now.

But, nevertheless, she's struggling. Because when she sees her friends, she can't smile. She can't be happy, because they're sad, and she can't try and cheer them up, because she's supposed to be sad too. So she's stuck in a faux depression and she doesn't know how long it'll last.

And worse than that, she has to watch her friends go through _real_ depression. John is going grey shockingly fast, Mrs Hudson has developed a near constant tremor in her hands, and Lestrade, well, Lestrade is -

"Molly," he says briskly, striding in through the double doors, Donovan following behind. "What have you found on the Hawkins case? Suicide?"

"Well, yeah -" Molly says, a little taken aback, "but -"

"No buts, Molly. If it's a suicide then case closed, job's a good'un."

"But it might _not_ have been suicide!" Molly protests. "It _could_ have been, but it could also have been _murder_."

"What's more likely?"

"I'd need to investigate more but -"

"Investigating more costs money, and when it turns out to be suicide it'll all be for nothing. Now, if we close the book here, you can get on with the rest of your day, I can get on with mine, suicide doesn't affect the crime stats, and everybody's happy!"

"You mean the _Chief Inspector's_ happy," Donovan says sulkily, kicking the door frame gently. "Which is what matters, of course. Not...keeping murderers off the streets or anything like that."

Molly narrows her eyes. "Don't start. Not when you were the one that went running to him in the first place."

"I had a _genuine _concern."

"No you _didn't_," Molly hisses, before regaining her composure. They've had this argument before, which is exactly why Donovan keeps her mouth shut. She doesn't like losing, Molly has discovered. "Greg..." she says softly. "You're becoming..."

"What?" he asks, rubbing his jaw, his stubble audibly scratching against the skin of his palm. "What am I becoming?"

"A bad detective." Molly bites her lip, waiting for the inevitable backlash. Donovan looks down, apparently anticipating a reaction too, but Lestrade does nothing.

"I know," he says simply. "But that's what I'm paid to be."

"No, you're _not_."

"What d'you suggest then? I go round and start analysing types of grass so we can tell which field someone's been walking in? I start working out life stories for people from their shirt collars?"

"You can tell a lot from shirt collars actually," Molly says offhandedly. "But, that's not the point," she adds in a rush, before Lestrade can retort. "I _know_ you're trying to make a point, but really, you're just doing _exactly_ what they want. If you carry on like this, you're going to end up just like them. I bet they've forgotten why they got into policing too."

"I haven't _forgotten,_" Lestrade argues. "I just -"

"Don't give a damn?"

Lestrade shrugs. "Maybe I don't. But I'm still paying the mortgage, I'm a lot less stressed, and the ones in charge are getting off my back. Happy days."

Molly shakes her head. Even _he_, _he_ who doesn't do empathy, _he_ whose moral compass is so grossly skewed that it's a wonder that _he's _never been sent to prison, would see what's wrong with this picture. And _he_ would be so very disappointed in Lestrade. So very, _very _disappointed.

* * *

It's very easy to tell when he's arguing with the voice in his head. His right fist clenches, the knuckles popping white under the skin. He grits his teeth, his jaw set, and then looks up at Molly with a forced pleasantry, as he tries to focus on what she's saying.

She wants to tell him the truth so badly. But if she does, he'll be in terrible danger, and so will she. That has been made _quite_ clear.

"How's work?" John asks, before taking a sip of his coffee. His eyebrows dart into a quick frown as he tastes it and Molly skews her lips to the side.

"It's fine," she says, not knowing what else she can say. She doesn't want to unload her concerns about Lestrade onto him. He doesn't need anything else to worry about. She grasps around in her mind for a topic of conversation that will be sufficient to distract the both of them from the fact that there is a third seat at the table they're sitting at, and there's no blue scarf or woollen coat slung over the back of it while its occupant fetches an americano and a pain au chocolat.

"It's nearly been a year," John says at last. "I can't believe it's nearly been..._shit_."

Molly reaches out and closes her hand around John's balled fist. There is nothing she can say to make this better. Nothing at all. He takes a few deep breaths and Molly waits patiently for him to gather himself. Eventually, he lets out a long, low sigh, and his fist slackens under Molly's hand.

"Sorry," he says, "I still have trouble -"

"Don't apologise," Molly tells him. "Don't ever apologise for caring."

"I was thinking," he says, his eyes darting around, looking everywhere except at Molly. "That we should all get together, on the day. Raise a glass, have some food or something."

Molly nods slowly. "Yeah," she replies. "Yeah, that sounds really lovely John."

He frowns. "Lovely?"

"Well, yeah," Molly shrugs. "He's not gone for good, you know. He doesn't just get deleted from existence because of what happened. We should remember, and we should talk about him, and we _should_ raise a glass. Don't try to ignore what's happened. Accept it, and don't forget him. Don't forget to live, either. I think you might be forgetting that one."

John taps his fingers on the table and Molly lowers her head slightly, searching for eye contact.

"I'll text you about the er...well. Look, I'd better get back to work."

"Yeah," Molly sighs, "yeah, me too."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hope you've enjoyed this. Thanks for reading chicas. :)

* * *

**The New Normal**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Where are you going?" He's got his sulky voice on. The one that's a little bit haughty and a little bit childish and a _lot_ demanding.

"Out," Molly calls from the bedroom. She leans over in front of the mirror, rubbing her lips together until the colour of her lipstick evens out. She's not sure of the dress code for the night, but she does know that John's booked a table at a fairly nice restaurant, and so she pulls on a dress. Not a stare-worthy dress, but just a nice, casual, slightly floaty sort of dress that she could get away with on a summer stroll through the park. She will _not_ overdress. Not now, not ever again. She's learned her lesson on that one.

"You're not staying in tonight then?"

"That's generally the definition of going _out_," Molly says boredly, fumbling with the clasp of her necklace. "Why? What have you got planned?"

"Well," he says, his voice much closer this time. Molly glances to the top corner of the mirror, where he is reflected, standing in the doorway. "Seeing as I've been dead for an entire year I thought you might like to celebrate my dead anniversary with me."

He moves forward, taking the necklace from Molly's fingers and fastening it with one smooth flick of his thumb. Her hands drop to her sides and she replies to his reflection, trying not to focus on the fact that he's so close that she can feel his warm breath on the back of her neck.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm celebrating your dead anniversary with your friends."

"What?" His eyes flash, his voice sharp. He looks almost offended.

"We've got a restaurant booked and everything. It was John's idea actually."

"Oh _was_ it?"

"Yeah," Molly says airily. "Sounds like it'll be a nice evening actually."

"Who's going?" he demands, taking a step back.

Molly shrugs and turns around to face him. "Me, Mrs Hudson, John, Greg."

"Anyone else?"

Molly shakes her head.

"So why are you dressed up?"

Molly frowns. "This isn't dressed up. This is 'night out with friends' smart-casual, not 'please look at me' dressed up."

"Right," he says, turning away.

"How do I look though?"

"I thought you didn't want anyone to look?" he retorts.

"Well I don't want to go out looking like an idiot," she reasons. "Nobody wants to go out looking like an idiot."

He casts a glance over her and Molly knows that look. It's the look that says that he's definitely _not_ taking in every detail because he would never need any of the information. Ever.

"Fine," he says, before stalking from the room.

Molly turns back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress.

She can't help herself. He lips spread into a wide smile.

* * *

They all pile back to 221B in a cab, having stopped off to get a few bottles of wine. John's got the corkscrew out before the rest of them can get their coats off, and before Molly realises what she's doing, she sits down in the leather armchair by the fireplace. John looks up from the bottle and blinks, once, twice, and then looks away. Mrs Hudson's mouth hangs slightly open, as though she might say something. Lestrade plonks himself down on the sofa, and it is a few seconds before the hand that he's rubbing his chin with pauses, then drops into his lap.

"Mrs Hudson!" John calls with forced cheer. "Red or white?"

"White please m'love," she replies, busying herself with the links of her bracelet. John passes her a glass of wine and she thanks him, and soon everyone's got a drink.

Molly's chest feels hollow with shame. She hadn't _thought - _she _never_ thinks, that's her trouble. She just barges in and does whatever she wants without considering how other people might feel about it. She's torn though, between finding another seat (which would acknowledge what she's done and thus make it into a bigger issue than it already is) or she can brush over it, like the others have, but risk them thinking that she feels no remorse for it whatsoever.

If she makes a bigger deal out of it, they'll be upset, but if she doesn't, then they might talk about her behind her back, might ask how she could have done such a thing, but they won't be upset. And so she stays. After one glass of wine, she even slips her shoes off and tucks her feet under herself. He makes himself at home in her armchair, so why shouldn't she do the same to his?

"How's Zoe, John?" Molly asks.

John laughs darkly, and Mrs Hudson bites her lip.

"We split up."

As if she hadn't put her foot in it enough already this evening.

"Oh," Molly says sadly, "I'm sorry."

"Nah it's all right," John says. "I've got a date on Tuesday anyway."

"Oh yeah?" Lestrade says. "Who with?"

"Some poor unfortunate soul who has no idea what she's let herself in for, no doubt."

Molly's heart explodes in her chest as shock and dread pulse through her.

As though he is arriving late to the party, Sherlock strolls into the flat, looks around, then fetches himself a glass from the cabinet and pours himself some wine.

"Cheers," he says.

Nobody raises their glass.

Molly looks down at the floor, hoping that no one notices the heat rising in her face. If they find out she knew, all this time...they'd never forgive her. The silence is too much though, and Molly looks up. Mrs Hudson's hands are pressed against her mouth, her eyes staring at Sherlock in disbelief. Lestrade is frowning, as though try to work out if he's hallucinating or not. John is shaking.

Sherlock looks around and then walks over to where Molly is sitting. He perches himself on the arm of the chair, and she's very aware of how close he is.

"You bastard," John whispers. "You utter bastard."

Sherlock takes a sip of his wine.

"Hello, John."

Molly experiences several things in the space of a second - a flying sensation, a crashing sensation, and then a hurting sensation. The wind is knocked out of her and she coughs and splutters, trying to find breath, her hand covering her stomach, which oddly, is wet.

She pulls her hand away, still coughing, and looks at it. It's stained with red.

She turns her head and Sherlock is laying on the floor a few feet away, John standing over him, chest heaving. And then he sees her, and his face falls. Sherlock turns to look too, blood streaming from his nose.

"Molly!" He scrambles over to her and Molly is still trying to catch her breath. Having him cradle her in his arms does nothing to help her calm down, in fact she's quite sure her heartbeat quickens. She can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and his too is twice its normal speed.

"Shit," he says, "_Shit_."

At last she is able to pull some oxygen into her lungs, her throat raw from coughing. John is crouched beside her with some tea towels, while Lestrade has his phone out, swiping through the screens rapidly.

"It's okay," she says. "I'm fine. Honestly."

"You're _bleeding_."

She tries to sit up but Sherlock stops her. "Just stay still. John, how bad is it?"

John's smiling, just a little, at the edges. "Dreadful," he says, fighting to keep a straight face. "I mean, this'll never come out."

"_What_?"

"It's _wine_, Sherlock. Greg, stop calling an ambulance, she's fine."

"But I thought -"

"I'm fine," Molly says, sitting up. She doesn't want to leave Sherlock's arms, but knows that she has to at some point. She's biting the bullet, as it were.

Lestrade shrugs and puts his phone back in his pocket as Molly takes in the damage inflicted upon her dress. It's ruined, that's for sure. There is a large, dark red stain across her abdomen, the material saturated. She takes the tea towels from John's hands and presses them against her, trying to soak up the worst of it.

John's smirking, his eyes on Sherlock. "You were a bit worried then."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you _were._" John's smile grows wider. "You were panicking."

"I don't panic."

"Then why didn't you _deduce_ that she was covered in wine, not blood?"

"There's a purple shirt in the wardrobe, right hand side," Sherlock says to Molly. "It should fit. Go and change. John will buy you a new dress this week."

"It's fine," Molly says, "Accidents happen."

"I'm sorry," John says sheepishly. "It's just, you know..._him_."

"Yeah," Molly replies with a small chuckle. "I know."

She disappears into Sherlock's bedroom and sure enough, the purple shirt is hanging in the wardrobe, perfectly pressed, and waiting for her to slip into.

When she returns to the lounge, feeling more than a little self conscious of the fact that the shirt shows a couple more inches of thigh than her dress, Sherlock's armchair has been righted, the wine mopped up, and Sherlock's nose has stopped bleeding. She hovers awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt the reunion. Sherlock, however, turns around.

"Well sit down then," he says, nodding towards his chair.

Molly follows orders with an "Oh, right". The leather is chilly against the skin of her thighs and Molly shivers. There is a fresh glass of wine waiting for her, and so she picks it up and drinks a little, as things start to settle down.

John falls back into his chair, Lestrade sprawls himself across the sofa, the excitement having tired him out, and Mrs Hudson takes a seat at the table, occasionally mopping her eyes with her hankie. Sherlock resumes his earlier position on the arm of his chair.

Molly had always thought things would go back to normal. That things would snap, like a twig, and suddenly they would be where they were before. But now, she realises she was an idiot. There is a new normal now. And she rather likes it.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
